


The Road Goes Ever On and On

by Elphen



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Friendship, Getting to Know Each Other, Insecure Sherlock Holmes, Insecurity, Inspired by Music, John's guitar, M/M, Music, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Being an Idiot, Sherlock's Violin, Teen John Watson, Teen Romance, Teen Sherlock, Teenagers, because I always have trouble tagging sufficiently, playing together
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-26
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-02-04 19:19:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18610858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elphen/pseuds/Elphen
Summary: AU. Sherlock and John both go to secondary school, Sherlock to a boarding school and John to a nearby comprehensive. Sherlock is roped in, much against his will, to be part of a new initiative of a student talent 'showcase', meant to combine music and English literature, where each act must be made up of people from both schools.When he finds out the one he's been partnered with is the boy who works weekends at the local village's newsagent's and lets him buy his cigarettes despite knowing his age, the one he's harboured a crush on almost since he first saw him, he suddenly becomes rather keen to practice.But John's a popular guy, it seems, and busy, too, with for instance the times he has to leave without explanation. Why would he want to stick around and be friends with Sherlock after the concert is over? Best make the most of it in the time he has.





	1. Meeting

**Author's Note:**

> Well, here's another teenlock-fic from me. Didn't really expect to write another one but then I got this idea and I just...I couldn't stop myself from writing it. I haven't forgotten the other stories I'm working on, don't worry.  
> Just going to preemptively say it's been years since I've played an instrument, I don't know the violin and just...I tried my best on the music part but please bear over a little with me.  
> Can I hire someone to write summaries for me? Because I still cannot, it seems. Sigh.

This was just about the worst.

They wouldn’t be performing a school play this year. That wasn’t what was bad. In fact, he didn’t care about the school play, except to plan how not to be part of it.

This had always been easy enough, given that he was actively ignored by the entirety of the student body and by the teachers. They’d long ago learned to their cost that though the boy with the mop of dark curls and almost iridescent eyes was quiet and clever, you bothered him at the peril of a verbal flaying, laying your faults bare for the nearby world to see.

He’d learned his lesson about what people thought of him and his cleverness long before he entered secondary school, let alone high school, and so he hadn’t even bothered trying to make friends when he’d arrived at boarding school.

So, everyone left him alone. Normally.

This year, however, there was a problem, and it came threefold.

Firstly, he’d grown quite a few inches in the last year and now stood taller than most of the other pupils – to call them peers would indicate that he was at their level, which was a horrible thought – which made it significantly harder to remain unnoticed, much to his annoyance. Worse, a few other pupils seemed to have noticed, too. They certainly kept sending glances his way, which he didn’t understand. He wasn’t that gangly and ungainly.

Secondly, they’d gotten a new English teacher after Mr. Locke had retired, one whose enthusiasm screamed that he was not just fresh blood but green, too. That meant he took an _interest_ in his charges, beyond what anybody would expect and, quite frankly, want. This interest included Sherlock, too, despite that he’d vehemently resisted, with whatever means he had.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true, was it? Mr. Duffy, it turned out, hadn’t just been hired to be the English teacher for the sixth form. He’d also taken on helping the pregnant and soon-to-be-on-maternity-leave Miss Wilkins with her music classes and had been delighted to discover Sherlock’s proficiency on the violin.

The younger Holmes had been decidedly less thrilled, at least to start with. Then he’d found out that not only was the man quite proficient himself, he was able and willing to teach him a thing or two he hadn’t known. Though the man was still too much of a busybody for his own good, and far too cheerful and optimistic, Sherlock found himself enjoying the time they spent playing.

Thirdly, undoubtedly at least partially the result of the change in teachers, the school play had been changed. Miss Wilkins couldn’t manage the whole menagerie as she normally did and so, she’d decided to make it into more of a sort of showcase of talents, combining music with English.

That had got the girls tittering, especially when they learned they’d be doing a joint venture with the local state school. Each would host an event, to foster bonds, and in that irksomely wholesome spirit, the groups performing would consist of students from each school.

Sherlock wouldn’t have cared a jot about it, as you had to sign up for it. Or, so he’d thought, until he’d head his name mentioned as he passed through the throng of students. As it wasn’t exactly a common name, there was no mistaking it for someone else. Worse, it was mentioned in relation to the talent showcase.

He didn’t ask them about it, of course he didn’t.

Later, he found out that it had been Mr. Duffy who’d signed him up.

“I know I was out of order, Sherlock,” he’d said, a little sheepish, hand rubbing at the back of his neck, “and I apologise, but I didn’t see your name anywhere on the list.”

 _And you didn’t think there might be a reason for that?_ Sherlock had thought. He hadn’t said anything out loud, however, opting for silence and a glare, which had earned him another apology.

It turned out a boy from the state school had put in a request to sing one particular, and peculiar, song, which was accompanied by only a guitar for the verses but was joined by a violin in the breaks.

Sherlock pointed out, when he saw the score, that anyone who played the violin could manage it, so why had he been drafted? And he could forget about it, in any case, he wasn’t going to do it. Why would he?

“Because you’ve been skiving off for more than half my English lessons, going down to buy cigs in the village, and if you don’t want to stay the entirety of Easter break to make up for it, or let your parents know you haven’t quit as you promised at the start of the year, I think you’d do better to take part.”

The fact that he was this open in his blackmail actually counted in his favour, in the teen’s opinion. At least he wasn’t trying to be clever about it, that was something.

Well, how hard could it be? He put up with the rest of the bleeding school body, what difference did one more make? It’d only be for a limited time.

“But why me? I’m not the only one playing the violin.”

“There’s only four of you in the sixth form, one’s on holiday and another’s doing a solo act. Besides, I think you’ll like him.”

 _That’s about as likely as Mycroft not sticking his fat nose into everything._

* * *

 

 

The first time they were scheduled to meet the students from the state school, Sherlock got a bit of a shock.

They were given a general introduction by the heads of both the public and state school, who’d seized upon this as an opportunity to promote the idea that the only difference between the two schools was school colours, dontchaknow.

The number of students that stayed awake was minimal.

Afterwards, the students filed out to the pairs and groups that’d been established previously.

Sherlock didn’t move, on principle.

Someone tapped him on the shoulder, hard enough to get his attention. His eyes narrowed as he turned to face them, but the sharp reply died on his tongue.

But this didn’t…that couldn’t…he knew that boy!

Well, _knew_ was perhaps somewhat strong. But that was…that was the boy who worked at the newsagent’s where he bought his cigarettes on weekends, who let him get away with buying them as someone underage, possibly because Sherlock had made some choice, and loud, remarks about somebody who’d tried to bully the other teen when he’d first come in, which had made them stop…and run out of the packed shop, extremely embarrassed by the revelations.

The one he sometimes got a warm smile or a toothy, lopsided grin from, for no reason. Both of which made him smile or grin right back, had started to make his chest feel funny. Warm and light yet tight, too.

Why hadn’t he made the connection that the boy obviously was his age, worked at the newsagent’s, of all places, so more likely to be from the village than not, and therefore undoubtedly went to the local comprehensive? He knew he didn’t attend this school; his jumper and jeans were worn and faded in a way that said overuse, for one. There were other indicators, too, none of which signified the parental financial situation needed to attend a public school.

Nor had he had the look of a public-school student about him. _Thankfully._

His chest felt funny again as he stared at the other teen, trying to right himself in a world that had just gone slightly topsy-turvy, for some reason.

It wasn’t helped when the ashen-blond boy gave him another of those warm smiles and held out a hand in greeting.

“Hi,” he said, “I’m John.”

“Sherlock,” the brunet replied, taking the hand and shaking it. Normally, he wouldn’t bother, but he did this time. It certainly didn’t have anything to do with the feeling in his chest or his stomach. Not at all.

The smile became a grin. “Yeah, I know.”

Puzzlement lasted only a moment. “Ah. From the list.”

“Sort of.”

Sherlock frowned.

The grin became slightly sheepish but didn’t fade. “To be honest, I knew the second time you came for cigarettes. I mean, you do kind of stick in the memory, don’t you? With your deductions and everything, I mean.”

Was there a bit of colour to the cheeks? Why?

He didn’t add anything more, so Sherlock was left wondering whether somebody in the shop had just told him – not unlikely, given that it was a village and there were enough busybodies to populate three – or whether he’d actually _asked around_ for Sherlock’s name.

That last thought sent a minute shiver through him.

_Get a bloody grip, you idiot. Not on his hand. Let **go** of the hand._

John settled himself on one of the empty seats next to Sherlock, only halfway turned towards him. “Be honest with you, didn’t think you’d agree to this.”

“Agree?” God, did he have to continually be on the back foot in this? Not only ask stupid questions but actually echo the other?

John didn’t answer. His smile instead became a sort of grimace for a moment, the self-conscious sort, which didn’t make sense. What on earth did he have to be self-conscious about?

The pause between them went on for a moment longer than was comfortable.

“You don’t have to do it.” John said, suddenly, as though the words had staged an escape attempt through his teeth. He turned his gaze away.

 _I want to,_ Sherlock thought and was surprised to realise that he meant it. It meant getting to see John – and why hadn’t he thought to find out his name before now? – on more than the weekends when he’d run out of cigarettes, something which he was quite keen to, he discovered.

That wasn’t what he said out loud, though, of course it wasn’t.

What he said was, “I do.”

The other teen looked at him askance. “Seriously, it’s okay to say no. If you didn’t agree, and why else would you look confused like that, then you don’t have to do it. I understand.”

Sherlock looked back, even when the blue eyes turned away again.

“I don’t think you do,” he said. “I _have_ to do it, because my English teacher is blackmailing me about it.”

That got the blond to look back at him fully, disbelief, interest, and amusement twinkling in his eyes. “You what? Not really?”

“Really.” Why was admitting that suddenly a bit exciting, as though he was letting him in on a secret? He supposed he was but still, that didn’t really explain the _feeling_ of it, did it? “Properly, too – threatened to force me to stay for the Easter holiday and tell my parents I still smoke.”

“Both at the same time? Isn’t that doing it wrong?”

“Certainly overkill, but then again, what can you expect from a novice?”

John was back to grinning. “Novice? What, a bit of an expert in the field, are you?”

The taller boy raised both an eyebrow and the corner of his lip. “What else do you think they teach us here? Bread and butter to us, innit?”

There might be other state school students who’d take offense at that comment. John, however, just snorted a laugh.

“Suppose physical backstabbing went out of fashion in the House of Lords.”

He paused, the grin fading. “Sorry I got you drafted _and_ blackmailed, though.” He sounded sincere.

“Don’t worry about it, it’s fine.”

Again, he meant it. Well, the underlying meaning that John shouldn’t feel bad about it, certainly. It wasn’t fine that he was going to spend so much time with…but it _was_ …but that was why it wasn’t!

It wasn’t as though he was _completely_ oblivious to his reactions to John or possible reasons for them.

Which was why this assignment was simultaneously the best and the worst thing possible.

* * *

 

Sherlock soon learned just why Mr. Duffy had been so pleased with the choice of song. Not only was the piece itself well-suited to performance, the lyrics were a poem that had been put to music. Furthermore, the poem came from one of the man’s favourite books – The Lord of the Rings.

Apparently, some Swedish group or whatever had sat down one day with all the poems the author ad sprinkled throughout the ridiculously long story and decided that since many of them were meant to be songs, they ought to have music, and so they’d created it.

It wasn’t really his thing, as it was too slow and yet folksy, somehow, with the guitar. Then again, it wasn’t as though he had a favourite genre of music, unless you counted classical violin pieces, and he didn’t.

But John seemed to like it. He must, to choose it. Of course, it was a factor that it had to be something that combined the musical with the literary in some way, and in that respect, he supposed that it was a good choice.

It was certainly better than some of the options that had been chosen by their fellow students. Not that Sherlock knew the names, but then he didn’t need to.

“So…how do you want to play this?” John asked when they’d moved off to plan out the logistics.

They were meant to stay where they’d met in the dining hall, really, but the blond had readily followed Sherlock when he’d moved away to somewhere quieter. The cacophony in the dining hall was bad enough while people ate, he didn’t need the addition of what the word was originally meant as.

So, he’d dragged them out to what had been the old groundskeeper’s shed but was now just storage. It wasn’t the place he preferred to be when he was by himself, that he didn’t want to divulge, but it was rare enough that it got visitors and so would work for the purpose.

“Well?”

“Well wh- oh. Yeah, obviously _well._ What I meant was, how do we plan practising? I know you’re brilliant at playing the violin and I’m not bad at the guitar, and it’s not the entire song that’s both instruments but – “

“Playing it separately and playing it together are two different things,” Sherlock finished for him. To be honest, it shouldn’t be difficult, at least not for Sherlock, even though he was almost exclusively used to playing on his own, and when he’d been playing with someone else, it was another violin.

Still, how hard could it be?

That didn’t mean that he didn’t want to practise together with John. Had it been anyone else, that wouldn’t have been the case but in this instance, it very much was so.

“Yeah. Especially when we haven’t done it before.” John paused, a thought seeming to strike him. “You sure you’re okay with this?”

“If I wasn’t, do you really think I’d be here?” Sherlock replied, levelling the other teen with a look that said ‘are-you-really-that-dense?’

John looked at him for a moment, seeming to contemplate. Then he gave another lopsided grin, with the corresponding lurch of Sherlock’s heart, which he was powerless to stop.

“No. No, I don’t.”

He grabbed the guitar he’d brought, which he’d momentarily leaned against the shed wall, in his left hand, his dominant hand. Then he dug into his uniform trouser pocket and fished out a couple of pieces of paper, neatly folded. He held them out to the other teen.

“There’s the sheet music for both of us,” he said. “I didn’t know whether Mr. Duffy had given you them in advance, so I printed for both.”

“Oh,” Sherlock said as he took them. Then, a little belatedly, “Thank you.”

He was suddenly grateful that he had actually brought his violin along instead of leaving it in the dorm.

Normally, it was locked away so nobody would feel the need or desire to mess with it and thereby him. It was one of the very few things he’d asked Mycroft for help with, and his brother had given it without question, ensuring nobody could break open its box.

He’d brought it along mainly because it would signal the right attitude to Duffy and therefore mollify him by making him think it had worked. Now, though, he was glad that he had, because it meant that even if they couldn’t play together yet, he had a chance to play for John, at least, and he wanted to show off for him.

 _And to what end would that be, exactly?_ asked an inner voice. _Apart from this unexpected project, the only times you’ve seen him has been at the newsagent’s and that hasn’t exactly won you a deep friendship, has it?_

No, but this could change it, couldn’t it? It might be a chance to show him that he, Sherlock, was worth getting to know.

_And why would he be worth showing it to? What makes him special in comparison to the rest of the students here or at his school that you want to do that? For that matter, why would he be interested in getting to know you? His friendliness at the shop’s only because that’s how you treat customers._

Because John didn’t just smile at him, he let him buy the cigarettes that he wasn’t supposed to get. More than that, he made sure that there was always at least one packet of Sherlock’s brand available for him to buy. And if he knew his name, he must’ve heard more about Sherlock, too, positive and negative, and yet he hadn’t backed away. He’d been the one who’d sought the younger Holmes out for this assignment.

_You don’t know that, and it’s a mistake to base deductions almost purely on tone of voice and extrapolation. Extrapolation that’s based on wishful thinking, and wishful thinking for what, exactly?_

He didn’t have an immediate answer for that, just willing his mind to shut up.

Even if it was just for a limited time, or a castle in the air, he wanted to _enjoy_ the time he was allotted with John, retain the hope that it wouldn’t be too limited and that he’d be liked.

_And how did it go last time you thought that a good idea?_

That was then, this was now. It’ll be different, I know it. Shut up!

Opening the papers up, Sherlock noted vaguely that the violin notes had been put first, instead of the guitar ones, which would make more sense. He scanned the page.

Then he looked back up, sharply; John had started to play his guitar, leaned up against the wall as he bent over it, concentrating. It was…it had to be the song they were meant to play together.

Glancing back down as he shifted the papers around, he took a closer look at the notes, listening as his eyes scanned them. Though he had no interest in playing the guitar, he could see the melody just fine and he was right. It was indeed that song.

It ought to have sounded boring, with its relatively simple melody. Yet there was something interesting, almost compelling about it, possibly aided by that very simplicity.

Or maybe it was just the fact that it was John who was playing that did the trick. There was certainly something compelling about the other teen with the guitar in his hands. He wasn’t trying to show off, in the way that Sherlock had seen quite a lot of other students do, mostly boys, do; sitting so that the guitar was clearly visible, fiddling more than actually playing the thing, going for easily recognisable pieces that people would pick up on – even Sherlock knew about that one with the heaven stairs – and always either with half an eye on a current or potential audience or frequent glances up to make sure.

This wasn’t that. John wasn’t looking up at Sherlock at all, his grip on the guitar was to keep it in his grasp and playable where he stood rather than for visibility, and as his fingers moved on the strings, shifting and changing as needed.

It was a performance, of course it was, that was the point. But it was a performance to show Sherlock what he could do, that he could hold up his end of the assignment, as it were, not because he wanted to score cheap points.

The small part of Sherlock that wished he might just do it a little bit to show off for him was firmly, soundly ignored. Hopes were fine but there was no reason to get them too high or unrealistic. Not yet.

That didn’t stop him from watching with what was perhaps more attention and focus than was strictly necessary.

John stopped playing after a while. He looked up, the light frown born of concentration still there as he looked at the other. Then he seemed to remember himself and he smiled.

It wasn’t a bashful or even a sheepish smile. Perhaps slightly sheepish but it was mostly that warm smile that reached his eyes.

Sherlock blinked, feverishly trying to remember whether you were supposed to say anything specific after something like that, or just generally what you were supposed to do.

His mind failed him, so he instead tried to smile back. It came easier than he would’ve thought and turned into a toothy one without his say so. But since that made John’s smile widen in turn, he wasn’t about to complain.

“I know I still have to practice it, and it’ll take more practice when it’s the two of us together, obviously, but…well, I didn’t know whether you’d heard the song before, so…” He trailed off, giving a one-shoulder shrug.

“I hadn’t,” Sherlock answered, and why was his voice suddenly so quiet? “Thank you.”

“Oh.”

Silence ruled between them for a bit afterwards. Then Sherlock settled his violin case on top of an abandoned crate, opened it, and brought out his instrument. Without a word, he settled it, closed his eyes and began to play the first piece that came to mind.

This was showing off, without any real excuse other than…no, with no real excuse. That he wanted to do it to show John that he could keep his end up, too, and, hopefully, impress him a little at the same time, that was neither defence nor excuse.

Why, then, didn’t he open his eyes to see the reaction on John’s face? Was he scared of what he’d find?

He had to force himself a little, but, taking a deep breath as he did so, he managed to open them and look at the other teen.

There was no anger or annoyance at being played to, a song that wasn’t what they were supposed to be doing, or indication that he knew the brunet was showing off.

John was looking at him attentively, head cocked to one side as he listened, the smile in his eyes and on his lips warm and…happy?

Sherlock’s heart didn’t just feel warm at that, it did a flip in his chest – not literally, of course, he wasn’t that daft – and it was a wonder his fingers didn’t stumble at the sight.

The piece came to an end and he lowered his instrument, slowly, keeping eye contact. He didn’t say anything and neither did John.

The silence stretched between them as they stood just staring at each other, slightly awkward but mostly charged in a pleasant way, like the warmth of a coming thunderstorm promising rain after a drought.

Reluctant to break it, Sherlock still opened his mouth to say something…when the bell rang, still audible from where they were.

John blinked, looked at his watch and cursed.

“I was supposed to be back by now.”

“You have lessons after this?” They hadn’t, as it had been purposefully placed at the end of the school day for that reason.

John paused as he looked back up at Sherlock. An odd, indefinable expression crossed his face. Then he ducked his head again.

“Sort of. Shit – I’m sorry, but I have to go.”

“Of course.”

His heart didn’t sink. What a stupid thought.

It was only logical. Of course, John would have somewhere else to be after the time allotted to the meeting. Why wouldn’t he? His schedule was probably rather packed, easy-going, friendly person like him.

That pretty effectively shot an arrow through the idea that John might’ve picked Sherlock for a reason to do this with, other than he was proficient with the violin. Why else would he have some other social engagement planned right afterwards? Why would he need to be back by the time the bell rang if not because other things had a greater priority?

He took a deep breath, not noticing how shaky it actually was, readying himself to a suitably friendly if measured goodbye.

Then he felt an unexpected touch on his hand and he almost jerked back before he realised it was John grabbing it.

For a purpose, it turned out, and not to say goodbye. Instead, he’d unearthed a pen which he was pulling the cap off with his teeth. Then he started to write.

“My number,” he explained as he wrote, as though Sherlock couldn’t recognise that on his own, or at least, that it was a phone number. “I know we should find out when we can practise and so on, but I’m…really pressed for time, so…call or write me on that, yeah?”

Sherlock nodded mutely, as much focused on getting the jumble in his mind under control as dealing with the other teen. That and not embarrass himself, further than he already had, at least.

At his minimal response, as it were, something flickered in the blond teen’s eyes and his expression turned momentarily odd again.

“Well, see you,” he said as he hefted his backpack better onto his shoulder and changed his grip on the guitar still in his hand. Was there an awkward tone to his voice? No, surely not.

Sherlock merely hummed a nod, still not trusting himself with more.

He expected John to leave then and he did. But he stopped after a few paces and halfway turned around to look at the brunet.

“Oh, and…thank you. For playing that piece. That was…really nice.”

With that, he did walk away without a glance backwards, leaving Sherlock without a chance to say ‘you’re welcome’ or with much of a clue as to what had just happened.

The only thing he did know for certain was that he would have to be a whole lot more careful, with John and with his reactions to him, if he was to get through the practice and performance of the song without embarrassing himself completely.

After all, it wouldn’t matter after that; they’d both stay at their respective schools – for a given matter of ‘staying’ for Sherlock, obviously – and he would just have to find somewhere else to get hold of his cigarettes.

It’d only be for another year, in any case – if Mycroft couldn’t be persuaded to let him go to university early, that is. Whether he was 17 or 18 when he started hardly mattered, did it?


	2. The start of a friendship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John tries to make it up to Sherlock for bailing and ends up being his normal, friendly self and Sherlock, torn between wanting to know John and wanting to stay safe and alone, is warming to the other boy and his friendship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did anyone expect this to be continued? I did. :)

He’d retreated to the place that had been exclusively his, and he knew that because he’d checked for signs of others regularly without finding any, since he’d started at the school. Two cigarette butts, still warm from where he’d practically sucked them down, lay crushed beside his feet on the rooftop.

The phone number was still scribbled across the palm of his hand, the numbers legible, the marker used having only bled a little in the warmth and slight moisture of his hand.

He’d been tempted to rub it off on his trouser leg immediately and though he’d refrained from that, he was deliberately using that hand to hold his cigarette, the automatic folding of his hand obscuring the numbers.

Another deep drag on the cig, firmly ignoring the thought that he’d been handed that packet by John, he considered what to do.

There was a part of him, an admittedly large part, that wanted to forget the whole thing, wash away the ink and never call or text John. To pretend that he’d not had the time to write or had plain forgotten, and indirectly tell John that he could find someone else to do this with.

Another part, a far more practical part, knew that at least getting out of this whole commitment wasn’t going to happen, if for no other reason than he believed Mr. Duffy would make good on his threat. To have broken his promise to stop smoking wouldn’t make his parents amenable to pay for university, never mind sending him there a year early, and Mycroft, the cake-addict bastard, would make sure they didn’t renege on it, no matter what Sherlock did.

So, like it or not, he was stuck with this.

Then there was a part of him, small but growing persistently despite his best efforts, like a weed, that forgave John, and its argument was that it wasn’t John’s fault that he was busy with something to do afterwards or that Sherlock might’ve expected something else when he saw him.

But he acted strange about it.

_Yes? How should he have reacted, pray? And for whose sake would that be? His? Yours?_

_Look at his body language. You’re proud of your deductive reasoning, use just some of it. Did the apology, twice given if not in so many words the second time, and the odd expression give the smallest impression that he was glad to be out of there? That he’d been waiting to get it over with? No? Not at all, even when you filter through them? Well, then._

Then there was the fact that he’d written his number down, he remembered to and made time for it, despite evidently being in a hurry. Which didn’t mean that he just wanted anyone to play with him, did it? Why remember that if you would be fine with whichever? Why go to the trouble of having the sheet music printed?

But he’d…not stayed with Sherlock when he…had somewhere else…clearly important…to be.

The argument sounded weak and petty to the part of Sherlock that wasn’t still busy feeling hurt and sulking, and so, of course, that only made the sulk more pronounced.

He didn’t wipe the number off, though, and he remembered to write it in his phone before he left the roof, so that he wouldn’t accidentally wash it off. That it took more than one hand wash to get it off was another matter.

 

His immediate reaction was further put to shame when he did text John, the evening of the following day – he didn’t want to seem overeager, after all, and they did have a bit of time to work with – and got a reply not five minutes afterwards.

What he’d written was a very impersonal ‘Hello John. – SH’

The reply read ‘Sherlock? Is that you?’

‘Who else would it be? – SH’

Quite a lot of other people but he was going to ignore that.

‘:D Suppose that’s a point. Anyway, I really am sorry for bailing on you the other day. :(’

Of course, John would use smileys. At least they weren’t obnoxious or taking up half the text.

Interestingly, though, he didn’t specify where he’d been. Then again, he didn’t owe Sherlock anything, did he? It wasn’t as though he’d bailed on the time they were supposed to spend together. Practicing. Obviously.

‘It’s fine – SH’ It took effort to restrain himself and only write that.

‘You know, you don’t have to sign your initials every time.’

“When do you have time and where should we meet? – SH’ Sherlock wrote, ignoring the comment.

It took a bit longer to get an answer to that but relatively speaking, it was quick.

‘I’m free on Monday, if that works for you? And I’m thinking it’s better I bring my guitar than you have got to take the violin. Unless you feel a particular urge to mingle with the peasant mob for an extended period, of course ;).’

‘Monday is fine. And honestly, it’d be an improvement over what I’m forced to deal with here. At least they are interesting from time to time. – SH’

‘Bored, are you?’

‘Excessively. Always – SH’

‘Always, huh?’ Even though it was only text, without smileys or any other mood indicator, the raised eyebrow and amused smile was palpable.

‘Perhaps not quite always. There are moments that alleviate it even if only momentarily – SH’

‘Oh? Such as?’

Sherlock felt his cheek warm a little, which was strange.

‘When I have things to solve. Among other things. – SH’

Why did he add that last bit? What did he mean by it? Did he mean anything? He wasn’t sure on either. At all, which was frustrating.

‘Solve? Solve what? I’m guessing you don’t mean equations.’

Should he tell him? It might be a bit too odd for John, and he didn’t want to alienate him. On the other hand, it was important to him, that was really all that mattered.

_Also, you’re again lumping him in with everybody else you’ve met, even though you’ve got a few indicators, at **least** , that he’s not quite like the rest of the mob._

‘As though I would have anything to do with something as dull. I solve mysteries. - SH’

‘What kind of mysteries? I’m guessing you don’t mean who stole the spotted dick from the dinner ladies or what caused all the toilets to flush at once?’

‘No, as those aren’t mysteries. I’d like to solve murders, but nobody will listen to me.’

“Oi, freak!” someone shouted from the door of the dorm room, someone familiar and onerous. “Lights were out fifteen minutes ago, you’re keeping everyone awake.”

_As though people aren’t busy being swallowed by their phone all night in whatever sense they see fit, you long-nosed, righteous little upstart arse-wipe,_ Sherlock thought but didn’t voice out loud.

This wasn’t because he was afraid of the self-important twit, quite the reverse. He’d more than once slapped the boy – who was half a year older than Sherlock and a prefect, a job he had weaselled himself into and took pleasure in as only such people can, but still looked as though he’d just started secondary –  down, verbally if not physically, and had done so both skilfully and, if he said so himself, almost elegantly.

Not that that had stopped the rat-like twerp, of course. If anything, it had made the resentment he felt for Sherlock merely fester and take root. Now any hint of wrongdoing, even of things nobody else got in trouble for, was enough to set him off when it came to Sherlock.

It usually ended up with the younger Holmes walking right back out, after he’d been dragged in there in the first place, of the headmaster’s office without so much as a blemish on his record, which of course only made it worse.

No, he wasn’t scared of the other boy or felt any particular need to obey. He just wanted to return to writing with John as soon as possible, and that would be expediated by having the prefect think he followed orders.

Unless, of course, he thought it suspicious that Sherlock didn’t fight back.

Which, annoyingly, turned out to be the case.

Footsteps to indicate that he was on the move. “Are you listening to me, Holmes?” The idiot still tried to be intimidating and gain the upper hand. It was almost sweet.

“As I have not yet found a method which will allow me shut off my ears and thereby finally block your nasal screech from my ear canal entirely, then yes, speaking purely technically, I am. It still falls a long way short of being actual speech, but you can’t have everything, I suppose.”

There were a few sniggers barely audible from around the other beds in the dorm room. Though nobody liked Sherlock, and many disliked him, quite a few of his peers loathed the jumped-up, self-important little snitch, and so there was always a silent support whenever Sherlock stood his ground and cut him down.

He felt the warmth of the body next to his bed but didn’t look up, even though he’d turned the display off the phone. There was an evident twitch of hands, but he didn’t follow through on manhandling the now taller and, thankfully, stronger teen. He’d lose.

Intimidation had no hold, either, but the poor tit had so few tools in his arsenal to deploy that even when he knew they didn’t work, he had little else to exchange them with.

Sherlock could wait him out, and he did, just listening and hoping that the window where John had time to write wasn’t slipping him by, having to deal with this idiocy.

After a few minutes of ineffectual methods, the prefect gave up. Not before delivering one last cliché, however.

“I’m watching you, freak.”

“Your skill at stating the blindingly obvious yet completely useless is yet unmatched. Perhaps you should ask your parents to bottle it for you? You need to make a living somehow, after all.”

There was an intake of breath at that, but it never manifested into anything more.

Sherlock waited what seemed like forever after the door had been slammed, just to make sure that he wasn’t coming back. Then he quickly opened his phone again, noting with dismay that not only had John sent a few texts while he’d been forced to deal with the nasal rat-face, they had been interested in what he’d talked about rather than put off or disgusted.

‘Murders? Really? Huh. That’s unexpected.’

The next one, sent straight afterwards, read ‘It’s brilliant, though. Just…not what I would’ve thought you’d go for.’

‘Tbh, I’d have expected the violin, really. The classical concert world, something like that.’

‘Bet you’d fit right in, with your talent and gorgeous figure and everything.’

Then, a little afterwards, ‘Sherlock? Are you there? Did I say the wrong thing?’

A few minutes after that. ‘Sherlock? I’m sorry if I messed up.’

Then, ‘Shit, I’ve got to – talk to you later!’

‘...Hopefully.’

Then nothing.

Sherlock checked the time stamp. Five minutes since the last. He wasn’t necessarily too late to catch him.

On the other hand, he did say, although somewhat aborted, that he had something to do, or at least, that was what was implied by ‘talk to you later’ in conjunction with the aborted sentence. Perhaps he had to be somewhere else again? Out with friends after dinner?

_Or it might just be that he needs to sleep, you idiot. You know that most people cannot just ignore their bodies and go days without food or sleep because they don’t feel like giving into demands._

Much to his dismay, Sherlock had been somewhat forced to eat more regularly in the last year. Like it or not, to grow and develop, which included his brain, needed fuel and plenty of it. Furthermore, he’d learned to his cost what happened if he ignored it entirely; he collapsed and was out for the count for some considerable time afterwards.

Luckily, the two times it had happened had been when he’d been alone, i.e. not in class, and he hadn’t been caught while out. He knew that he hadn’t because if he had, he would’ve had to endure far more nasty remarks than he was subjected to now.

But luck only ran so far, even his, and he didn’t want to run the risk. So, much as he didn’t want to listen to his baser needs, he had given in to the bare minimum he could give away with.

Other people were much more beholden to their bodies, which definitely included John.

Still, he couldn’t help the thought that it would hurt more not to try than to do so, and the longer he procrastinated, the greater the risk that John wasn’t going to answer him, for one reason or another.

He hoped he would answer, because the uncertainty in the wording, the question marks, had lodged something small but strange and not entirely, if even at all, pleasant inside his ribcage.

So, as quick as he could, he typed, ‘John, I’m sorry. I wasn’t ignoring you. I was a little tied up. – SH’

‘The idiocy of public school struck again with lights out and one of the prefects is a petty, power-hungry rat with mummy-issues that will only grow when she leaves his father for her two lovers, and he doesn’t like being told that. So, he’ll use any excuse to try and assert dominance, which is laughable. – SH’

‘I didn’t mean to keep you waiting, though. – SH’

Nothing. He waited a few minutes, with an ear on the door, in the increasingly unlikely event the prefect decided to return.

Then he wrote, ‘Are you still awake? John? – SH’

Silence. He waited again, the unpleasant thing behind his ribs growing ever so slightly as it sunk lower.

‘You didn’t say anything wrong. At all. – SH’

‘John? – SH’

Nothing. Not at all.

He checked the time.

It was getting to be late, as in past midnight late, and it was only Thursday, which meant that someone as dutiful as John wouldn’t stay up long past what was deemed acceptable by parents and other grown-ups to still be capable of getting up and going to school the next day.

Though he tried to console himself with that as he lay there, he couldn’t help the unpleasant thing’s further slight expansion as it sunk another notch.

Despite his best efforts he fell asleep around half an hour later.

 

The next morning, in the time between waking and going to class, Sherlock almost didn’t touch his phone, anxious about what it might, or might not, hold. Which he knew was stupid and not conducive to anything but regardless, it took him some mental persuasion to open the phone and see what, if any, texts he’d gotten.

There was one from Mycroft, which he firmly ignored.

Far more importantly, there was one from John. Not just the one, there were several.

‘Morning. Thank you for…replying’

It didn’t take a lot to work out what the ellipsis was covering over but it was slightly puzzling that John felt the need to change it.

‘I’m sorry that I wasn’t…Harry was going – anyway, I’m glad you wrote back.’

Why wouldn’t he? Sherlock frowned in incomprehension.

‘Shouldn’t I? – SH’ he wrote.

‘No. No, you should. I meant – never mind.’

No, not never mind. Sherlock needed to know. Pressing the issue, though, might not be a good idea, even he sensed that.

‘Harry’, though…was that a friend? No, if it had been a friend who’d upset him or had to be dealt with, as the words and the abruptness of the sign-off the night before, he either wouldn’t have cut himself off from mentioning more or he’d have left out the name entirely, so as not to ‘out’ him to Sherlock.

So, someone who mattered enough to get under John’s skin and piss him off enough that the reaction, the mention, was out before thought was, but at the same time, he felt protective towards them, cutting himself off halfway through. Halfway through a text, which he could’ve edited but he was agitated enough, even now, the day after, not to.

Family then. A father? No, that would fall back into not wanting to oust him. What – ah, a brother. Obvious.

_And why do you care about things like that?_ The inner voice was slightly mocking in its tone.

Because…it was useful to know things about the people you had to spend time with.

_Uh-huh. Whatever you tell yourself, Sherlock._

John wrote again just a few minutes later, ‘We still on for Monday?’ he asked.

Again, why wouldn’t they be?

‘Of course. – SH’

‘Okay. Good. What time? After school?’

‘That sounds perfectly fine. – SH’

‘Right. Okay. Well, see you then, then.’

‘Yes. – SH’

No. No, no, no. The conversation couldn’t end now. He wasn’t ready for it to end yet.

Wait, what? It was only a stupid conversation, one that was meant to establish when and where they would meet to practise, that was it. There wasn’t supposed to be more to it than that, so why was he suddenly so anxious for it not to end?

_Perhaps you like talking to him more than you thought and you’re therefore afraid that if you stop, he won’t pick it up again and will only talk to you at those practice sessions?_

But what could he do, then? What could he say? He couldn’t think of anything that wouldn’t come off as trite and useless, unless of course he – but perhaps he ought to wait with that. He had yet to meet someone who reacted with positive interest to details of how he solved things.

Almost nobody liked to be deduced, either, but the details of how he worked out something always got the same varyingly disgusted reaction, and he didn’t want to see that expression on John’s face.

What could he possibly – oh!

Would that be trite? He wouldn’t have thought so. It was worth a shot, surely.

The first class of the day had begun by that point but as it was only History, he sat himself at his desk at the back and kept quiet. If somebody caught him out, it’d be no different than everyone else stuck ‘learning’ about some lousy battle or other, and normally nobody bothered with him.

‘You mentioned the concert world – is that what you’re going for yourself? – SH’

‘What, can’t you work that out from a look on my left thumb or whatever?’ came the answer.

‘JK’, came immediately afterwards. ‘Seriously, JK. I was really impressed when you let loose on those guys at work. That really was amazing, that you can do that.’

Sherlock blinked, more than a little thrown by the unexpected compliment. He had been, even back then?

He’d gotten a smile from John at that time, a grin in fact, but that could as well just have been out of gratefulness for dealing with them, not anything to do with Sherlock’s prowess.

‘Thank you. – SH’

‘Your question, btw – gods, I wish. Don’t really think they’re into guitars much, not even if I try and play it like a violin.’

Sherlock had a brief but clear mental image of John with the guitar under his chin, bowstring at the ready and couldn’t suppress the snicker.

The teacher, Mrs. Gainsborough, looked at him but didn’t comment. She never did, her will as strong as a bendy straw.

Sure enough, she turned back to the blackboard almost immediately, droning on about something or other.

‘Isn’t that prejudice? – SH’

‘Against me or them?’

Another snicker, this time far better suppressed. ‘You. Definitely. But concert world doesn’t necessarily mean the classical concert hall, though. – SH’

‘I suppose that’s true. Don’t think I’ve got it in me to be in a band, though, not professionally.’

‘Why do you play, then? – SH’

‘Why do you? Why does anyone play? Because I like it. It’s fun. I get to learn things, some of which are difficult, because I feel like it when I feel like it, not because someone tells me I ought to.’

An immediate yet still hesitant-sounding text followed, ‘Does somebody tell _you_ you ought to?’

What? No, not anymore.

‘No, of course not. Nor do they expect me to pick it as a career. – SH’

‘Oh. Fair enough. You want to be a policeman, then?’

‘Why on earth would I want that? – SH’

‘You said you wanted to solve mysteries, such as murder. It’s not exactly a big leap.’

‘I don’t intend to spend my life bogged down with paperwork. – SH’

Changing the subject slightly, he asked, ‘And you? – SH’

‘And me what? Oh. Career, you mean?’

‘Yes. – SH’

‘Hang on a bit, we have a practical experiment.’

Sherlock waited, just slightly impatiently, for that experiment to be over with. It took an unreasonable twenty minutes.

‘Didn’t know it could do that.’

‘Do what? – SH’

‘Blow up in three different directions. At once. Hit four other students and the teacher. Somebody managed to get a picture. Hang on, I’ll send it.’

Another message came through, with the promised picture. Sherlock had to admit, it did look quite spectacular, and made mental notes to try and recreate that for himself.

‘You did that? – SH’

‘Well, Mike and me, really, but yeah.’

‘That’s very impressive, I have to say. Going to be an explosions expert, then? – SH’

Why on earth was he so interested in what John wanted to do when he left school? They wouldn’t have anything to do with each other, and this stretched quite past being friendly. He would bet just about anything ‘Mike’ didn’t know what John wanted to do for a living.

The thought that _he_ might know what John’s friend wouldn’t, and because the blond had told him, not because of what he’d deduced, made him oddly a little happy.

_Well, look at it this way; whatever the reason behind it, it’s certainly gotten you some more time talking with him, hasn’t it?_

He couldn’t deny that point.

‘What? No. Did consider becoming a soldier, though, but I think I’d rather be a doctor.’

A doctor? Sherlock’s mind, whether helpfully or more likely not, pieced together an image of how John might look some years down the line, when he’d qualified – and then one in his uniform.

He had to shift in his seat to get comfortable, for once grateful for the rubbish tables low height.

‘Any particular field? – SH’

‘Sorry, got a bollocking from the teacher. Hell, I don’t know yet. Any particular reason you’re asking?’

_Because I don’t want the conversation to end and I don’t have enough knowledge of the things you’re interested in that will allow me to bluff my way through._

His inner voice answered with a question; _Why can’t you just ask him, then?_

He didn’t have an answer to that.

‘Just curious. Am I not allowed to be? – SH’

‘…What?’

‘Never mind.’

There didn’t come any reply to that, and Sherlock tried not to worry about it.

When they were into the class after lunch, he couldn’t help writing.

‘Oh, god, I think my neo-mammalian complex is about to stage an escape attempt due to sheer lack of stimulation. – SH’

‘…Is that your toff nose way of saying you’re bored out of your skull?’

‘Yes. – SH’

‘What, and you expect me to entertain you?’

_No. But I want you to._

‘Yes. – SH’

‘XD’

‘Why is that funny? Seriously, though, I’d like to, but I keep getting glares from our teacher, and I don’t want my phone confiscated. I’ll write you after classes finish, okay?’

'Okay. – SH’

To be honest, he didn’t want to wait but at the same time, he didn’t want John to have his phone confiscated either, and so he’d play nice.

Besides, he’d just had him say that he wanted to keep talking, that ought to count for something, right?

* * *

 

 

They kept chatting on an on-and-off basis, dependent on what else they had to do, through the weekend, so that when Monday rolled around, it felt like a natural extension to be meeting up after school to practise.

Sherlock had spent some of the weekend practising on the piece. Even though he knew he could play it fine if he hadn’t and just had the notes in front of him, he’d made the effort, so that he could show John that he was taking it seriously. That was important.

He hadn’t missed an opportunity to go buy cigarettes and John had been there, but they hadn’t had much of a chance to talk, as the shop had been unexpectedly full for a Saturday morning. The only reason he’d taken that setback relatively calmly was that he knew they’d be seeing each other again soon.

His chest warmed a little each time he thought of that.

They met at the same place as they’d gone the first time, since although it wasn’t the best place for music, it was nicely secluded.

Sherlock got there first, and not just because he was the one who had the least way to travel. While he waited, he smoked a cigarette and ran a hand through his hair repeatedly.

When John arrived, he quickly dropped the stub to stamp it out with his foot.

“Don’t do that on my account. It’s not as if I don’t know you smoke,” the blond commented with a raised eyebrow and a nod towards the ground.

“But you don’t approve.”

John frowned at him. “No, of course I don’t approve. There’s nothing good to be said about it – and yeah, I know, I work at a newsagent, it comes with the territory, and it’d be a bit hypocritical to lecture you.”

“You could just not have sold me any,” Sherlock pointed out. “I’m not old enough.”

_Stating the obvious now, are we? Well done, Sherlock._

“Didn’t know that the first time you came in, did I? It’s not like you were in your uniform, and well, with your cheekbones and – “he waved a hand up and down which seemed to include the entirety of Sherlock’s body, which didn’t make any sense – “everything, I didn’t twig until somebody told me you were a student here.”

“You could’ve refused to sell me any after you learned that.”

John settled himself against the shed, sliding down it until he sat with his legs spread, knees bent and his guitar in his lap. He grinned up at the other teen, a wry half-grin.

“True,” he conceded but didn’t further elaborate on it.

Sherlock paused, uncertain of whether it’d be okay for him to sit down next to John or whether it’d be better to remain standing. Yeah, they’d gotten along in texts and so, great in fact, but that might still be a bit too far, and Sherlock didn’t want to rock the boat, as it were.

Not that he wasn’t going to, because he always seemed to manage to, but there was no reason to actively _seek_ it, now was there?

The blond solved that by tilting his head as he continued to look up at the brunet, still with the half-grin intact.

“You gonna stand there all day, are you?” he asked, then patted the ground. Sherlock didn’t move. “Come on, sit down. Bloody beanpole.”

Sherlock let it slide, as there was no heat in the comment, only warmth, which seemed to transfer over to him. He sat down and, being a little daring, chose to sit quite close beside the other teen. Not so close that they were touching but certainly closer than acquaintanceship would normally dictate.

John let him and didn’t move away.

He did watch, however, as Sherlock pulled the violin out of its case and swung it into position, the bowstring resting on the strings, ready.

“No notes?” he asked. It wasn’t accusatory or anything of the like, just a question.

“Don’t need them,” Sherlock replied, and if there was an element of pride as well as showing off in there, could he really be blamed?

“You’re not saying you knew the music already?” John asked, disbelief in his tone of voice.

“Not before you handed it to me, no.”

He let the implications of that be up to John to interpret from but judging by the sudden light in his eyes and the way they crinkled at the corners in a smile, he took it to mean that Sherlock had spent a good deal of time between getting the notes and now practising. Which wasn’t…false. He’d certain spent enough time practising that he didn’t need to see the notes to be able to play them but that hadn’t taken as long as it did for others.

If the thought that he had spent a lot of time practising pleased John, though, he certainly wasn’t going to abuse him of the notion, now was he?

“Right. Okay. We’re ready, then?”

“Ready when you are,” Sherlock replied with a small, sincere smile.

It was the guitar that started the piece off, after all.

John held his gaze for a moment, seemingly for no reason. Then he looked down and started playing.

It was slow but then it ought to be. Sherlock took the opportunity, as he wasn’t supposed to join before the second playthrough of the melody, to just watch the other teen, noting the concentration but also the…reverence, the quiet joy etched into his entire face as the fingers glided gently but confidently over the strings, the music flowing almost effortlessly from him.

Sherlock unconsciously licked his lips as he felt his chest warm again.

He almost forgot that he was supposed to join in. As it was, he just about managed to make it in time, only stumbling a little on the first note or two. Then his fingers took over from his momentarily unreliable brain and steered him safely through.

It was tempting to close his eyes, but he fought the urge and kept his eyes on John, who after a moment or two looked up as well.

A shiver ran through the brunet, from the back of his neck all the way down his spine, leaving tingling warmth in its wake.

How he remembered not just the notes but when he was supposed to stop, he didn’t know, but he was content to stop and just observe John playing until he was meant to join in again.

There was supposed to be singing in there, too, as they were playing a song, but they hadn’t discussed it, and though Sherlock had looked the song up online and had heard the lyrics, he didn’t feel brave enough to broach it and certainly not to try and sing it.

The last time he’d sung out loud was when he’d been forced to be part of his primary school’s play at age nine, and he had no intention of changing that fact now.

But they did need to discuss it because part of the assignment was to pick an English literature poem someone had put music to. He highly doubted they’d get away with skipping the poem part entirely.

For now, though, he was enjoying the moment.

As the last note rang out, they were smiling at each other, not saying anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know, it felt right to end the chapter here. Hopefully it'll feel like something's happened.  
> I will try to not let there be such a long gap to the next chapter and I'll do my best to finish the story, even if it's only for me.

**Author's Note:**

> I have tried to make Sherlock a bit more...well, not quite as 'together', I suppose, as when he's a grown-up, even if he tries to act like it. It just...it felt right. John, too, really, but Sherlock more so.
> 
> The song in question, which is where the title comes from, can be heard here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U7bIUx_rjYw  
> I may have said so before but I highly recommend tracking down the group's efforts to put music to the LotR poems. They're Danish, though, not Swedish. :)
> 
> Feedback is, as ever, greatly loved and appreciated, though I'd love you to be civil and constructive in critique.


End file.
